Gordita Conspiracy

by Lyle Christie

  The drag shoot uncoiled and made the pallet flop and twist like a bucking bronco, and it took all my strength to bring my feet in and wrap them around the rope webbing, all the while silently praying that the main chute opened and spared me from impacting into the desert floor at about two hundred miles per hour. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about, I suddenly heard gunshots then felt bullets whizzing past me, with at least one imbedding into the other side of the pallet. I looked towards the plane and saw Emir’s face locked in a grimace as he furiously fired his pistol at me. Five more rounds and the shooting stopped, allowing me too focus on my next task—namely, survival. Sure, I’d jumped out of plenty of airplanes in my life, but never without a parachute firmly strapped to my back, and now I had to rely on the one connected to this fucking pallet.

  The drag shoot continued to flutter, but another few seconds passed, and it finally managed to pull the main shoot open. It created a massive jolt that nearly knocked me free of the pallet’s rope mesh, but I managed to hold on, and was now dangling by my hands thousands of feet above the ground. With the pallet descending more slowly, the world became eerily quiet, and the only noise was the sound of the plane as it trailed off into the distance. I climbed up onto the top of the pallet’s cargo crates and took a moment to see how Farid had fared on the jump. His main shoot had opened, but there was no sign of him, which made me wonder if perhaps the shock of the opening had knocked him free. I looked down towards the ground, but thankfully only saw a barren landscape, so I turned my attention back to his pallet and saw, as it twisted around, that he was desperately trying to climb up to the safety of the top. Thank God! The fucker was alive, though he was most likely having some extremely unpleasant thoughts about me and my escape plan. Suddenly, a gust of wind hit him, and he lost hold with his right hand and was left dangling precariously by one arm before reaching back up and getting a grip on the netting. He started climbing again and thankfully made his way up onto the top, where he wrapped his body around the parachute lines so tightly that he looked like a Rhesus monkey clinging to its mother. He eventually floated around until he was facing me, and I gave him a friendly wave, but he responded by giving me the finger. That’s gratitude for you.

  We drifted that way for what seemed like an eternity, but, in reality, was only a matter of minutes before the details of the ground came into view. I saw that we were indeed approaching the outskirts of a village, and down below a crowd of people were waiting. The closer I got to the ground, however, the more obvious it was how fast I was traveling, which meant I needed to prepare for a rough landing. I had done endless jumps as a PJ but hadn’t been near a parachute since my little stunt back on Soft Taco Island—and that one had only entailed parasailing onto a nice soft beach. This was entirely different, so I hoped that my training would come back and be of some use when I hit the ground. Ten feet from impact, I prepared to hop off and do a roll with the idea being to distribute the force of the landing. Just before the pallet clunked down, I stepped off the edge, and, when my feet hit the ground, I bent my knees and transitioned into an aikido roll across my shoulder and continued all the way through to a crouch before standing up without so much as a scratch.

  “Tadaa!” I said, holding out my hands like a gymnast who had just completed a gold medal worthy dismount off the parallel bars.

  The crowd of people started clapping, so I gave them a brief bow and hand flutter before turning my attention back to Farid. Strangely, his pallet hadn’t yet reached the ground, so I imagine that his load must have been a bit lighter. He was still about fifty feet off the ground, falling rapidly, and holding on for dear life with his face locked in a grimace of terror. The people around me were probably expecting an equally elegant landing, but they wouldn’t get one. When the pallet slammed down, Farid bounced off the top of the crate then went flying off to the side and landed face down in the dirt. I raced over to his side to find him motionless. At first, I thought he might have been knocked unconscious, but he coughed, and a small cloud of dust shot out from the sides of his mouth. He managed to get up onto his hands and knees, and I could see his face was coated with dirt. His eyes opened, creating two windows in the layer of soot, and it was so horribly funny that I was unable to hold back a laugh.

  “I just have to say one thing,” he said.

  “You can stop right there, as I already know what you’re going to say. So, you’re welcome, my friend, because I know how seriously awesome it is hanging out with me again.”

  “That’s not exactly what I was going to say,” he said, finally mustering a small smile.

  I helped him up then took a moment to look at the people gathered around us. They were all staring quietly, and I could only imagine what they might be thinking, considering the unusual fact that we were wearing tuxedos and had just fallen from the sky on a couple of pallets. An older man with a grey beard, kindly eyes, and the weathered skin of a life in the desert stepped forward. He was of course wearing a white thawb and the thick red and white keffiyeh that was common to the people of Jordan. Here, however, a keffiyeh was called a shemagh, and his had large decorative cotton tassels hanging off the sides, which meant he was likely their village elder.

  “I have never seen penguins this far north,” he said.

  It was actually a pretty funny reference to the fact that we were wearing tuxedos.

  “Yes, it’s a little unusual, but I believe you’ll find us on the bill of lading.”

  The man smiled.

  “I am the village elder—call me Ismail,” he said, with a smile.

  “You speak English, and you’ve apparently read Moby Dick.”

  Ismail was the Arabic spelling of Ishmael, the narrator’s name in Herman Melville’s epic novel.

  “Yes—and yes, as we are near Petra, one of our country’s most popular attractions, which means there are practically more tourists than locals around here, so English is the unofficial second language.”

  I pulled out my iPhone and saw that I had no service. Wonderful.

  “Do you by chance have a phone we could use?”

  “Yes, of course, but it’s a land line. The cell reception is shit this far out in the desert. Come, follow me.”

  The crowd moved in and loaded the pallets on an old truck then ambled back towards the village. We joined in the procession and followed Ismail north towards a congregation of dwellings a couple hundred yards across the picturesque valley. As we walked I had a look around at the sun baked mountains and could see how the millions of years of wind, water, and sand had exposed the jagged lines of their strata—making it look a bit like America’s Grand Canyon but on a smaller scale. It was certainly a beautiful place, but I was betting that life here was probably difficult, so these people had to be pretty fucking hearty to survive.

  This point was proved shortly thereafter by Ismail, who moved like a fucking mountain goat, forcing Farid and me to struggle to stay on his heels. Clearly, his active life kept him in good shape, and, in a matter of minutes, we were already in the heart of Ismail’s village and standing before his humble abode. It was a plain white single leveled structure that an American would probably describe as fifties ranch style, though it obviously lacked the manicured lawn and obligatory minivan or Volvo station wagon in the driveway. Instead, it was ringed by a wire fence that enclosed the house and formed a corral that was occupied by sheep, two horses, and several camels. We passed through the gate and entered his home, removed our shoes, and took a seat in his living room. A moment later an older woman appeared who was probably his wife, and she served us hot tea and disappeared as quickly as she had arrived.

  “That was quite an entrance you made back there. Do you mind me asking how it is you ended up on those cargo pallets?” Ismail asked.

  “Well, we were supposed to leave the plane while it was on the ground in Istanbul, but we ran into an old friend who was a real asshole, and we had to leave a little sooner than planned, so, needless to say, we now desperately need
to get in touch with the people who we were going to meet.”

  “The phone is right there,” he said, pointing at a small wooden table beside the couch.

  I pulled out my iPhone and looked up Matheson’s information before dialing the country code then his number, and it was oddly satisfying to feel the tactile sensation of the old push button phone. After a brief pause and two clicks, it started ringing, and continued to do so until the third ring when I heard a voice.

  “Matheson here.”

  “Hello, stranger, it’s Finn.”

  “Are you in Istanbul on the Vandenberg jet yet?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that we’re in a small village near Petra”

  “Petra, as in Jordan?” he asked, sounding confused.

  “That’s the place.”

  “What the hell are you doing there? You were supposed to fly to Istanbul.”

  “I know, but we had to exit our flight a little early after an unexpected run-in with an old friend.”

  “And who might that have been?”

  “Sheikh Emir—a cousin of the royal family of Dubai. He was probably hoping to kill me then take Farid back to Prince Hamza.”

  “What in the hell was he doing on that plane?”

  “Looking for us. Apparently, the Middle East is a very small place.”

  “But you’re OK now?”

  “Yeah, except for the fact that we need to figure out how the hell to get out of Jordan—or more specifically, Petra.”

  “Hold on a second.”

  I used the moment to have another drink of the delicious tea before Matheson finally came back on the line.

  “All right, can you get to King Hussein International Airport in Aqaba?”

  I repeated Matheson’s question to Ismail, and he nodded.

  “Yeah.”

  “OK, good. The Vandenberg jet will be at the private terminal in two hours. Get there as soon as you can but stay safe.”

  “Thanks, over and out,” I said, hanging up.

  “So, Ismail, how do we get to Aqaba?”

  “It’s easy,” he said, with a mischievous smile.

  It turned out that the airport wasn’t actually very far away, but the journey required at least two forms of transportation with the first and fastest one being a camel or horse to Petra. We could take a car, but the road around was long, slow, and a perilous journey, which gave credence to why they had supplies dropped in by air. Traveling by animal was the wiser, faster option and meant we would go straight over the hill and actually arrive in Petra sooner. From there, Ismail had arranged for his brother to take us south all the way down to Aqaba. In theory, the entire journey would take about two or three hours. In reality, however, I had no idea.

  Ismail had horses and camels, but he could only spare the latter, and of those, only two—one for us, and one for our guide. Sadly, that meant that Farid and I would be sharing a camel, but I was still mildly excited because, during the course of my unusual lifetime, I had never actually been on one and was now finally going to at last ride the great ship of the desert. Of course, it would have been a lot more pleasant had I been riding solo, but you never looked a gift camel in the mouth.

  Accompanying us on this journey, and acting as our guide, was Ismail’s son Asaf. He was a young man of eighteen, with dark brown hair and lively eyes who seemed to find our predicament particularly funny and let out a laugh as he regarded us in our tuxedos. He briefly explained the eccentricities of mounting and riding a camel, which in some ways, seemed a lot easier than a horse. Unlike the horse, where the rider climbed up onto its back, the camel knelt down onto the ground so that the rider could easily mount up—or so Asaf claimed.

  “Shotgun!” I yelled, stepping forward.

  I climbed aboard and took the front spot while Farid sat directly behind me, which technically meant he was riding bitch. At that point, Asaf prompted the camel, and it stood up and managed to get up onto its feet, and it appeared to be ready and able. So far, so good—that is until a great long gurgling fart rocked the air.

  “Goddammit, Farid!”

  “It wasn’t me, jackass. It was our ride.”

  Asaf laughed once again.

  “Camels can be very gassy. Especially Bashir here,” he said, patting Bashir’s side.

  A great and terrible odor filled the air, and I was suddenly very thankful I had the front spot, as it was as far as I could get from Bashir’s prolifically pungent butthole. Asaf, meanwhile, climbed onto his camel, and we set off with the three of us forming one of the most ridiculous looking caravans this part of the desert would ever see. Asaf, of course, looked like a local, but the two men in tuxedos sharing a camel looked like a couple of jackasses, and anyone we passed would be guaranteed a good laugh and a fascinating story for years to come. I hazarded a brief glance over my shoulder at Farid and had a funny thought and smiled.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “I just realized that you have become a cliché.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re officially a camel jockey.”

  “Camel jockey—that’s funny!” Asaf said, laughing.

  “Actually it’s not. In fact, it’s a disparaging description of an Arab,” Farid said, rolling his eyes.

  “No, no—I think you are wrong! The words camel and jockey put together sound funny,” Asaf said, as another giggle escaped his lips.

  “Happy now, Mr. Cultural envoy?” Farid said, to me.

  “I am as long as I can continue to bring joy to those I meet.”

  We headed up the hill along a well-used path that snaked its way back and forth across the mountain and gained altitude with each switchback. The camels kept up a steady pace, and soon the village below was but a number of distant specks of white against the reddish hue of the landscape. At last we crested the hill, and I was surprised to see a light dusting of snow still visible from the last storm. In this part of the world, it was easy to forget that we were well over three thousand feet above sea level, and freezing temperatures were common in the wee hours of the morning. At this hour, it was quite pleasant, and the sun was feeling warm and soothing as we started our decent down towards the ancient city of Petra. A hundred yards ahead, the path opened up onto a road, and Asaf slowed his camel and came alongside.

  “Only a little bit longer,” Asaf said.

  “Excellent. Why don’t we use the time to hear a little more about your life. Do you have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Goat? Other?” I asked.

  “Girlfriend,” he said, laughing.

  “Is she a hot potato?”

  “Hot potato?”

  “Pretty. Is she pretty?”

  “Oh, yes. Very pretty.”

  “And plentiful bosoms?” I asked, using my hands to form two large breasts in front of my chest.

  Asaf laughed again, though he reddened slightly, obviously a little embarrassed.

  “You don’t have to answer his questions if they make you uncomfortable,” Farid interjected.

  “It is OK. It is nice to speak so freely about such matters. The people of my village are not so open-minded. And to answer your question—yes, they are easily more than a handful.”

  “Nice. Are you going to get married and make sweet love to her in the desert?”

  “I hope so—but I don’t have enough money yet. Not a lot of opportunities in a small village like mine.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yes—but that is life in the desert. What about you? Where are you guys from in America?” Asaf asked.

  “I’m from Northern California, but my bitch here is actually from Iran.”

  “Originally, but I’m moving to the States,” Farid interjected.

  “Yeah—so he can meet a blond woman with big breasts and do some motor boating.”

  “Motor boating? Such as on a lake or the ocean?”

  “No, in this case it means you place your face between
a woman’s breasts and wiggle your head back and forth while making a sound like a motor boat.”

  “Perhaps I can try that with my girlfriend one day,” he said, laughing.

  “You won’t be disappointed.”

  We continued down the mountain, and the midday sun was a warm and welcome companion until we at last saw the beginnings of the once great city of Petra. Asaf turned out to be an excellent tour guide, and Farid and I learned all about this ancient city. This seemingly remote area of the Fertile Crescent, which the Bible identifies as the place where Moses’s brother Aaron was buried, had been occupied for thousands of years but came into real prominence around 312 BC when an Arabic tribe called the Nabataeans settled in these mountains and made it the capital of their kingdom. This allowed them to occupy the precious caravan routes between Arabia and Syria, and, during that time, they made great advances in hydraulic engineering systems that allowed them to divert and collect the winter flood waters into reservoirs, thereby storing it for the long dry summers. Having such advanced control of their environment allowed their culture to thrive and expand, and they constructed incredible monuments and buildings, some of the most spectacular of which having been carved directly from the surrounding mountains.

  By 63 BC they had been conquered by the Romans, and their great city was renamed after the reigning emperor of the time, Hadrian Petra. Though Rome took tax revenue from their new acquisition, it allowed them to govern themselves, and the Nabataeans continued to thrive up through the Byzantium era when changing trade routes and a catastrophic earthquake brought it to ruin in 551 AD. It wouldn’t come back into prominence for nearly fifteen hundred years when Europeans arrived in the nineteenth century and started exploring the area. Now, Petra was littered with foreigners, luxury hotels, and had become Jordan’s number one tourist destination and a UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage Site.

  “You have to admit, this adventure has been pretty fucking amazing,” I said, to Farid.

  “Yeah—and I suppose I should thank you. Had it not been for you spiriting me out of Dubai—I’d have spent this time living a life of luxury, driving my Bentley, and making love to scores of beautiful women. Instead, I have been used as a human shield, forced to jump out of a perfectly good airplane, and now face the indignity of riding bitch on the back of a camel for all to see.”